Say what?

Petal asks me what we are having for dinner. "Stew," I tell her.

"I hate sha-woo," she says.

"You hate 'what'?" I tease.

She goes to say it again, but stops herself. Instead, she says:

"I hate that-thing-you-said-we-are-going-to-have-for-dinner-tonight-and-I-don't-want-to-eat!"

"What's that, darling?"

Without thinking she says, "Sha-woo".

Mummy (1) Petal (0)

A real cock-up

While cooking hot cakes for the kids' breakfast, Petal came in and asked me:

"Can I have a hot cock now?"

Wrong. So wrong.

It's a date

I plant a big kiss on Petal's cheek this morning.

"Ouch!" she says.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"That hurt me," she complains.

I'm a little taken back. "Since when do kisses hurt?"

She thinks about it before telling me, "January."

Don't go changin'

Yesterday we caught up with a friend of mine and her two-year-old son who have been living overseas for the last six months.

As you'd expect, the two-year-old has changed significantly in that time. He's taller, he can talk in full sentences, he's out of nappies, he's just, well, bigger.

After he left, Petal turned to me and said:

"There's something different about Noah." She paused, trying to put her finger on it.

"Has he had a haircut?" she asked.

The weighting game

Petal jumped onto the scales in the bathroom this morning.

"Mummy, I weigh 3-7-7," she announced proudly.

Last time I checked she weighed around, erm, 350kg less. I took a glance at the digital scales to see if there was an error.

Yes, there was. Displayed was: Err

Under where? #2

I have written previously about my daughter's fascination with g-strings. I recently found her trying on a pair of mine. Let me just say, there's something very creepy about seeing a four-year-old girl in a pair of black, lacy, barely-there knickers.

"Oh darling, get them off."

"Why Mummy?"

"It's just so wrong."

Petal looked confused. "Am I wearing them wrong?"

She went to fix them up in the only other way she thought they must be worn. She stretched at the elastic waist and in a move to make a contortionist proud, she slipped her arms through the leg holes and hoisted them onto her shoulders.

"Is this still wrong?" asked my mini-Borat.

Are you talking to me? #2

Petal’s grandma rang to say she was returning the lovely message from her granddaughter. I had no idea any call had been made.

You see, Petal has a memory like steel trap and she has memorised her grandmother’s phone number. All eight digits.

In between colouring-in, watching SpongeBob or playing with Barbie, she has taken to making secret phone calls to her grandma.

The messages my mother returns to hear go like this:

Hi Gangi…

Yes, I’m fine…

I told you, I’m fine…

Okay, I’d better go now…

Bye-bye, love you…

CIick.

Or sometimes it’s:

Hi Gangi…

Yes, I’m fine…

I’m never having a boyfriend ever again…

Bye-bye, love you…

Click.

It’s seems Petal is using her grandma’s answering service as a (self) help-line.